Barefoot in the Sand (47 page)

S
omething was different at Casa Blanca. Will could practically smell a change in the salty air of Barefoot Bay the minute he climbed out of his truck in front of the resort’s construction trailer. To the west, the Gulf of Mexico was dead calm, the cobalt swells barely lit by dawn’s fiery rays peeking over the foliage along the east. The construction parking lot was empty, of course, and the structures stood silent in various degrees of completion.

Still, the air pressed, heavy with… change. Funny how he could sense that. Like when the wind would pick up in the outfield, a signal that the game’s momentum was about to shift.

Scanning the main building, he noticed a few additions since he’d last been to the job site. Clay and Lacey Walker ran a tight schedule, determined to get the high-end resort up and running within the year, so it was no
surprise that the subs had been hard at work on Friday while he’d driven to Tampa to pick up the flooring for one of the villas.

There were definitely more roof tiles on the main structure, the creamy barrels adding to the many textures of Clay’s Moroccan-inspired architecture. And the window contractor had been busy, too, leaving at least a dozen giant sheets of plate glass propped along the side and front of the curved entry, ready to be installed when the roof was completed.

But the main building of Casa Blanca was of no real interest to Will. His work centered on the six private villas that the resort’s most well-heeled guests would rent. He’d spent most of the last year building those smaller structures, including all of the finishing carpentry in Rockrose, the first completed villa at the north end of the main path.

He peered through the palm fronds and elephant ear leaves that had grown so lush since a hurricane stripped the trees over a year ago, studying the unpaved road that led to the villas. Deep, fresh wheel grooves cut through the dew-dampened dirt. Had someone driven up there on a Sunday?

Even if there had been a sub here on a Sunday—which was really unlikely—the construction crew was primarily focused on Bay Laurel, the villa closest to where he stood now, and the destination of the African wood flooring he’d loaded in his truck.

Why would someone drive up the path? He paused at the passenger door, pulling it open to grab the cup of coffee he’d picked up at the Super Min on his way to the site. As he unwedged the cup from the holder, a drop of hot
black coffee splashed through the plastic top, dribbling onto the seat.

Well, not the seat. Onto the newspaper he’d dropped there. And not exactly a newspaper either, unless the
National Enquirer
qualified.

The headline blared and taunted him.

Coco Kirkman Says: My Life Coach Stole My Husband!

Why the hell did he buy that paper anyway? To revel in Jocelyn Bloom’s misery? To get the dirt on a woman he once thought was perfect?

Oh, shit, why not face facts? He bought the tabloid on the off chance there’d be a picture of Jocelyn inside. And there was.

Holding the coffee in his right hand, he used the other to lift the front page to see the blurry shot of a woman with long dark hair, big brown eyes, and features so familiar he didn’t need some paparazzi’s wide-angle lens to capture them.

That face lived in his imagination. And since he’d seen her on TV last Thursday night, dead center in a Hollywood scandal, thoughts of Jocelyn had haunted every waking moment.

Like that was much different from every other day.

Maybe work would distract him. He nudged the door closed with his hip, finishing his coffee, still intrigued by the tire prints in the path. Following them, he strode along what would be the resort’s most scenic walkway, canopied by green and lined with exotic flowers.

He passed some of the villas, mentally reviewing each construction schedule, but his thoughts stopped the instant he rounded the foliage that blocked Rockrose, the only fully finished villa.

That’s
what was different.

He squinted into the sun that backlit the vanilla cream structure, highlighting the fact the French doors along the side were wide open, the sheer curtain Lacey had installed fluttering like a ghost. There was no breeze, so someone had to have the overhead fan on in there.

Shit. Vandals? Squatters? Maybe Lacey’s teenage daughter or one of her friends taking advantage of the place?

There was no other explanation. Rockrose had been given a CO two weeks ago. But a certificate of occupancy didn’t mean
actual
occupancy, and Lacey kept the secluded villa locked tight so that none of the construction workers traipsed through or decided to use the facilities.

He took a few steps closer, instinctively flexing his muscles, ready to fight for the turf of a building that somehow had become “his.”

He took cover behind an oleander bush, slipping around to get a better view into the bedroom. He could see the sheer film of netting Lacey had hung from the bed’s canopy, the decor capturing the essence of North African romance.

If anyone defiled one inch of that villa, there’d be hell to pay. Especially Rockrose. He’d laid the marble in the bath, shaved the oak wood in the ceiling, and personally carved the columns on the fireplace mantel. The whole job had given him more satisfaction than picking off a runner trying to steal second.

Irritation pushed him closer to the wood deck. If some stupid kid had—

The filmy gauze around the bed quivered, then suddenly whisked open. Holy Mother Mary, someone was
sleeping
in that bed. He bounded closer, sucking in a
breath to yell when one long, bare, shapely leg emerged from the clouds of white.

His voice trapped in his throat and his steps slammed to a stop. The sun beamed on pale skin, spotlighting pink-tipped toes that flexed and stretched like a ballerina preparing to hit the barre.

The other leg slid into view, followed by an audible yawn and sigh that drifted over the tropical air to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He took a few stealthy steps, wanting to keep the advantage of surprise but, hell, he didn’t want to miss what came out of that bed next.

The feet touched the floor and a woman emerged from the netting, naked from head to toe, a sleep mask covering most of her face. Not that he’d have looked at her face.

No, his gaze was locked on long limbs, a narrow waist, and curves that begged to be handled. Her breasts were small, budded with rose-colored nipples, her womanhood a simple sliver of ebony that matched the hair tied up in a sloppy, sexy mess on her head.

Finally, she stretched, widening her arms, yawning again, giving him a centerfold-worthy view as her breasts lifted higher. Every functioning blood cell tumbled south, leaving his brain a total blank and his cock well on its way to being as hard as the planks of African wood in his truck.

Son of a bitch. He backed up, ducking behind the oleander and cursing himself for being some kind of pervie peeping Tom. He had to get back down the path, and return—noisily, in his truck—and find out who the hell she was.

A footstep hit the wood deck and Will inched to the side, unable to stop himself from looking. At least she had
a thin white top on now, and panties. And she’d taken off the sleep—

His heart stopped for at least four beats, then slammed into quadruple time.

Jocelyn
.

Was it possible? Was he imagining things? Was this a mirage spurred by a couple of lousy pictures in the media and three days of fantasies and frustration?

She reached up and pulled a clip from her hair, sending the thick, black mane over her shoulders like an inky waterfall. Shaking her head, she closed her eyes and turned her face to the rising sun.

All doubt disappeared. That was Jocelyn Mary Bloom, the girl next door, the teenager who made his every dream come true, the woman he—

Her eyes popped open and her head whipped around toward him. “Is someone there?”

Make a joke. Say something funny. Walk, smile, talk. C’mon William Palmer, don’t just stand here and gawk like you’ve never seen a female before
.

“It’s me.”

She squinted into the bushes, then reared back in shock as he stepped full out and revealed himself. Her lips moved, mouthing his name, but no real sound came out.

“Will,” he said for her. “I thought someone was trespassing.”

She just stared, jaw loose, eyes wide, every muscle frozen like she’d been carved out of ice.

He fought the urge to launch forward, take the three stairs up to the deck in one bound and… thaw her. But, holy hell, he knew better with Jocelyn Bloom. One false move and
poof!
Empty hands.

“What are you doing here?” They spoke the words in perfect unison, then laughed softly at the awkward moment.

Not really awkward, though. They’d always been of one mind; she just hadn’t realized it. Yet.

“Lacey brought you here?” he guessed.

She nodded, reaching up to run a hand through that mass of midnight hair, then, as if she suddenly realized how little she had on, she stepped back into the shadows of the villa, but he could still see her face. That beautiful face he’d always lo—

“How about you?” she asked.

He cleared his throat and wayward thoughts. “I work here.”

She looked completely baffled. “You play baseball.”

“Not anymore. I build villas. Like the one you slept in last night.”

“Lacey said I’d be the first guest. I’m… staying here.”

Hiding here, more like. The pieces fell together like tongue in groove. She’d run away from the mess in L.A., and her best friend had cloistered her in a place that wouldn’t even show up on a map, let alone at the other end of a some reporter’s camera.

Then another thought hit him like a fastball to the brain. “You alone?” He must have had a little accusation in his voice, because she raised an eyebrow and looked disappointed.

“Yes,” she said softly, sadness in her eyes and a softness in her posture.

Shit. He’d hurt her. He regretted the question the instant it had popped out. She was hiding from prying eyes and personal questions and what had he done? Pried and asked.

He held up a hand as though that could deliver his apology and took a few steps closer. “How long are you here? I’d love to…”
Talk to you. Kiss you until you can’t breathe. Spend every night in your bed
. “Get caught up.”

“I shouldn’t be here that long.”

In other words, no. “Too bad,” he said, hiding the impact of disappointment. “Maybe I’ll see you on the south end when you go home.”

“I won’t go there.” The statement was firm, clear, and unequivocal.
Don’t argue with me
, dripped the subtext.

She wouldn’t see her dad? A spark flared, pushing him closer, up the stairs. She wouldn’t even go visit? She wouldn’t even do a drive-by to see if her old man was dead or alive? Because he’d bet his next paycheck, she didn’t know.

Something hammered at him, and this time it wasn’t his heart reacting to the sight of his favorite woman on earth. No, this was the physical jolt of anger and a whole different kind of frustration.

“What do you do at Casa Blanca?” she asked, apparently unaware she’d hit a hot button.

But her casual question barely registered, her astounding near nakedness practically forgotten despite God’s professional lighting that gave him a perfect view of her body under those slips of white cotton.

“Carpentry,” he said through gritted teeth, a little surprised at how much emotion rocked him. He had to remember what she’d gone through as a child, what her father was in her eyes… but right now, all he could think about was a harmless, helpless old man who had no one to call family.

Even though he had a perfectly good daughter standing right here.

“A carpenter just like your father,” she said, nodding. “I remember he was quite talented.”

“Speaking of fathers…” He dragged the word out, long enough to see her flinch… like she had whenever her father had taken a step toward her. “I’m back in my parents’ house. They moved out to Seattle to be closer to my sister and her kids.”

In other words, I live next door to your father
. He waited for the reaction, but she just raised her hand, halting him. “I really have to go, Will. Nice to see you again.”